


Carne viva

by Krytella



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Drugs, Kink Meme, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-20
Updated: 2010-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:18:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krytella/pseuds/Krytella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames always wonders why Arthur covers up every inch of his body in those delectable three piece suits and never reveals any skin; turns out Arthur's completely tattooed. Eames finds out while on the job and fixates on them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carne viva

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for this Inception Kink Meme prompt: http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/7339.html?thread=11852715#t11852715
> 
> Warning: non-sex-related drug use.

"Arthur!"

"Five minutes," Eames hears faintly from the hotel room.

"Now!"

Eames has never been particularly patient, especially when there's no good reason to be. He uses the key card Cobb gave him "in case of emergency." Eames considers not having had coffee an emergency.

When he breezes into the room, Arthur's turned away, rooting for something in his suitcase. He's only got on his trousers, and Eames sees something he never expected from the straightlaced point man.

"You couldn't wait for five minutes? Congratulations on your excellent self control," Arthur says as he stands up and turns. Eames is still staring, speechless. Arthur walks to the closet, unruffled, and shrugs on a shirt.

"Close that mouth or something might fly into it," Arthur says as he buttons his waistcoat. Eames realizes it's been a minute and he's still staring. At least his mouth isn't literally open. Well, not very far.

Eames can't get it out of his head. Businesslike, straight ahead Arthur covered in ink? It's not as if he didn't always think there was more to Arthur than his job. It's not as if he didn't always want to see what he kept under those shirts. It's not even as if he didn't barge into Arthur's room in hope of catching a glimpse. But now it's simply stuck in his mind, the gradients of black covering his back, splashes on his upper arms and across his chest. He makes it his mission to see them again.

The job went well (of course it went well, they made the right choice calling Eames), and they even have a little time in Buenos Aires to relax. They'd gotten in and out so smoothly that no one would be looking for them. So although Cobb seems immediately restless, ready to move on to the next job, he and Arthur and Nash accept Eames's offer to celebrate by treating them to the most expensive booze he could find. Eames always tries to socialize with the potential future providers of job offers. It's never bad to keep in touch with contacts in the industry.

In a few hours, they're sitting in a plaza. It's 3am and the other revelers scattered across the square look to be mostly teenagers and dealers selling them drugs. Nash is passed out on a bench (probably too much of what he bought from one of those dealers earlier), and when Cobb wanders off to look for coffee ("it's 3am." "and?..."), Eames judges it the perfect time to make his assault. Arthur was calm when Eames first discovered the tattoos, so he's not pathologically secretive about them. But in the three jobs they've done together, two in hot climates, Arthur has never worn short sleeves. This suggests that he does consider them private, personal. Arthur is private about everything – Eames has no doubt that if he had Arthur's research skills, he could learn a lot about the man, and Arthur would respect that knowledge. Arthur respects the way Eames understands things about him that he won't say. It's not that he can't tolerate people knowing things about him, but he would rather not talk about it. This is why Eames chooses a time when he'll be artificially relaxed. He's not above manipulating the situation, so he bumps Arthur's hand, spilling shitty beer all down his front.

"Sorry, mate."

Arthur glares. If he was in full possession of his faculties, he would accuse Eames of trying to get him undressed. Right now, he just shrugs and starts unbuttoning his shirt like it's the completely obvious thing to do in this situation. He shrugs out of it and pats at his stomach with the dry part, trying to remove the residue of beer.

"I'll pay for your dry cleaning. Honest," continues Eames, but his mouth is running on without him as he stares.

"Honest? You? I knew when we went out that whatever I wore would be ruined. You leave a trail of destruction," Arthur grumbles.

Eames draws his finger down Arthur's arm, tracing the line of the sword there from the tip at his shoulder to the hilt just above his elbow.

"What the fuck?" Arthur jerks away.

"De oppresso liber" reads Eames. "What's it mean?"

"To liberate the oppressed," snaps Arthur. "Official translation. I prefer 'from the man overthrown, a man free.'"

Actually, Eames knows what it really means, without the literal translation. He doesn't know everything about Arthur, but some pieces of history are easier to dig up than others.

"Was that your first?"

"No," Arthur gestures at the twin nautical stars on his chest. They're black and white like all his pieces, or at least all the ones Eames has managed to glimpse so far, but obviously older and fading to blue.

"I was sixteen, on a foreign exchange. My host brother took me. I wanted to do something stupid," he sounds like he thinks he's admitting to some horrible sin. Arthur doesn't do mistakes. "You have any?"

"No. Well, not any more." Eames pulls up his sleeve to show the scarred area on his shoulder. "Not wise in my business. Makes it awfully hard to disguise your identity."

"You don't have to show them to everyone, though. In Japan, they do traditional tattoos in private places. It's a shame to show them publicly. Practically an admission of being a criminal."

"You've obviously never had to jump out of a second story window buck naked to run from the cops. After that, you have no secrets, trust me," he laughs. "One stupid thing I can understand. You're not one to repeat a mistake, though."

"I didn't say the others were mistakes."

"So why did you keep going?"

"Once you have one, it's not such a big thing. They help me to remember what's important."

Arthur leans against the bench, relaxed. It makes Eames think of the way he likes to balance his chair on two legs. Arthur likes order and memory and living on the edge of a knife. On the tip of a needle.

"What's important about the birds, then?"

There's a cascade of seagulls flying up the left side of his chest, the top one over his heart and the lowest Eames can see disappearing under his trousers. A faint background of waves spreads out behind them, wrapping around his side. Probably connected to the back piece.

"Mal loved the ocean."

"Can I see your back?"

Arthur turns to show him. Before, he could see it was a building, but now he has time to absorb the detail, the towers, the water falling between them and the impossible aqueduct feeding it. The terraces behind the building melt into waves as they wrap around his left side, fading out on the right. The single scene completely covers his back.

"Escher. Of course. Is it for someone, too?"

"No, it's more about dreaming. Reality. Making the impossible real."

"How romantic. I never thought you had it in you," Eames teases. "Or on you, in this case."

He draws a finger down Arthur's spine, traces the zigzag course of the water. Arthur shivers. It's mesmerizing. It's beautiful. Then, of course, Cobb reappears.

"Eames! Stop molesting my partner. Arthur, stop showing off."

Arthur glares at him, but shrugs back into his wet shirt. Always loyal, despite Cobb's random outbursts of anger. Arthur must remember when he wasn't like that. Eames has seen Cobb's architecture, and it was brilliant. He's done a good job as an extractor as well, but architecture was his true calling.

Eames doesn't see either of them again until Cobb turns up in Mombasa asking about inception.

They all lay low for a while after the Fischer job, but soon it becomes apparent that Cobb was serious about retiring to be with his kids, at least for a while. That leaves Arthur finally free. Arthur, who can ferret out all the information that exists and some that doesn't seem to until he's there, and more importantly, is the first person Eames trusts at his back. Or, usually, at his front, since that's the job description. He's often accused Arthur of having no imagination, but he had to eat his words after hearing how he arranged that kick in zero gee. Besides, Arthur's talent isn't for dreaming big, it's in the details, the things that Eames would forget, the holes in his plan that Arthur will see, the precise way he takes out anyone who threatens his team.

So Eames woos Arthur. He calls him whenever he has a line on an interesting job; he hunts down interesting jobs only to turn them down when Arthur blows him off. Finally, Arthur breaks down. He must be bored out of his skull. Eames knows he hasn't been working with anyone else. And he knows Arthur knows he's one of the best extractors out there. Cobb didn't hire him just because he needed a forger, he hired him because he needed someone who could find the emotional angle they needed on the mark. Most jobs don't need such a large team. Eames plans on working this one with himself, Arthur, and Achmed, an architect he met through Yusuf who he's taken a liking to.

They're in and out smoothly, catching the narco lord with his mistress in Guadalajara. He, at least, isn't observant enough to pick up on any inaccuracies in the carpeting of the sham apartment they create (Eames laughed and laughed when he heard about Cobb's misadventure with Saito). He gives up the location of his cartel's routes easily, and Eames delivers the list to his competitor the next day. Then they get the hell out of the area, because the trade in Mexico is getting too brutal even for someone with Eames's unique experience. The three of them head to Cancun, where Eames doesn't have to worry about being caught smuggling their bonus across a border. To be fair, Eames also considered the idea of Arthur at a tropical beach resort when he planned their escape route.

Arthur won't go to the beach per se, but he does deign to relax on the balcony occasionally. Eames takes it upon himself to convert most of their bonus into cash as soon as possible. He doesn't even ask Arthur and Achmed. They wouldn't touch the stuff. It's not hard to do, with all the Americans on vacation and ready to party. He only keeps a little for himself. He knows full well that he isn't the best at self control when it comes to fun intoxicants, and he doesn't want to know what would happen if he ever let himself really go down that road. So he keeps enough for a couple of good highs and enjoys them at the casinos and clubs, safely away from Arthur's disapproving looks.

He wakes up the day after his last night of debauchery at noon and stumbles out to his balcony. Arthur is outside his own room, sitting in the sun. In jeans and a vest, which is practically nude compared to his normal business attire. Of course, Eames has never actually seen how he acts when he's not working.

"You look like shit," says Arthur, but he's smiling. Eames thinks blearily that no one he's seen confront a Mexican standoff in real life without flinching should be allowed to have dimples like that.

"Fuck you, too." He can't help but smile back. His head is pounding so hard that it takes a moment to realize how Arthur is staring at him. Eames looks down and realizes the only thing he's wearing is a pair of gym shorts. So maybe when Arthur said he looked like shit, he actually meant something entirely different.

"Ugh. Breakfast. Coffee," Eames continues.

"It's 12:30."

"Never too late for breakfast. Have some imagination for once."

Just in case, Eames stretches lazily as he saunters back inside. Just in case, maybe, Arthur is amenable to fun while he's on vacation. Eames is never too tired or inebriated to make full use of his assets.

After he's washed up and eaten and feels vaguely human again, Eames knocks on Arthur's door. When he opens it, Eames asks, "what about that one on your left arm? I never got to that."

Arthur steps back, inviting him in with a sigh. They stand awkwardly in the entry.

"Koi symbolize courage in Japan."

"Nice bit of cultural appropriation you've got going on there."

Arthur scowls. "My grandmother was Japanese, asshole. She taught me a lot of things in her way. When I got into this line of work, I started researching my family. When she was twelve, her little sister died in internment. Grandma Sumiko never even told us she'd be in a camp. Always gaman. It means something like perseverance, stoicism, not rocking the boat. But sometimes I like to think of it as knowing when to shut the hell up."

Arthur puts a finger to Eames's lips. Eames does, in fact, know when to shut the hell up. He opens his mouth and sucks the fingertip inside, swirling his tongue around and then biting down gently. He keeps his eyes locked on Arthur's the whole time, holding the intensity of his gaze, watching his eyes roll back into his head and then the finger is gone and Arthur's kissing him.

This is probably, definitely, a bad idea. It will affect their working relationship and right now Eames really doesn't care. He slides his hands around Arthur's arse and pulls him in. Arthur bites Eames's lip and makes quick work of unbuttoning his shirt, sliding it off his shoulders so he can bite and suck his neck, his collarbones. Eames groans. Nobody is going to be able to miss what he's been up to when they see him later. Luckily, he has no reputation to protect.

Eames yanks at the gem of Arthur's shirt, wanting to see the expanse of his body and its art. Arthur lets Eames pull it over his head, and Eames drops to his knees, kissing down the seagull on his hipbone as he unbuttons Arthur's trousers. He knows what Arthur was thinking of when he touched his lips. People always are, and Eames doesn't like to disappoint. He licks up the underside of Arthur's cock, looking up at him through his eyelashes, then sucks it down in one movement. His lips meet Arthur's body and Arthur breathes out, "Jesus fucking Christ, Eames."

Arthur fists a hand in his hair, but doesn't push. Smart. He knows to let Eames work. In only a couple of minutes Arthur's thrusting his hips in spite of himself. He pulls Eames off and drags him to his feet.

"Fuck me," Arthur demands. His voice is low and commanding and sexy as hell.

"Yes, sir."

Arthur's eyes narrow a bit, but he doesn't say anything, just shucks his trousers, grabs lube and a condom from his suitcase, then throws them and himself on the bed. Eames undresses frantically and crawls after him, drinking in the sight. Arthur probably intentionally keeps out of the sun to avoid fading, and the tattoos stand out against his pale skin. Eames slides hands up his parted legs, over the long block of text in some romance language on his left thigh and the lowest bird that dips below his hipbone. On the inside of his thigh, where it could only be seen while he's in this position, is the only splash of color on his entire body. A red die. Eames feels himself smiling as he strokes his thumb over it.

"Come on," Arthur's practically whining, and Eames can't resist someone begging for it. He puts on the condom, lubes up his fingers, and slips one inside. Arthur's a fucking pro, relaxing into it immediately, and Eames slicks himself up and pushes in with no further warning.

Arthur's also very flexible. He grabs the back of Eames's neck and pulls him down into a kiss, bending himself almost in half in the process.

"You're trying to kill me, I knew it," Eames mutters into his mouth.

"Kill you with sex? Yeah, right," Arthur fires back. "You realize I have actually met you."

Then they're both two far gone for witty banter, and it devolves into wet sounds and moans and the occasional quiet expletive. Arthur's got his hand between them, jacking himself off, and Eames has enough sense left to slow and try to wait for him to come first. Finally he does, biting down hard enough on Eames's shoulder to leave a bruise, growling through his teeth. Eames speeds up, spurred on by the feeling of Arthur's muscles clenching around him. Everything in his world tunnels into pleasure and Arthur's body beneath him and he doesn't feel Arthur's teeth at all as he comes.

Eames pulls out and collapses next to Arthur, stripping off the condom and tossing it in the general direction of the bin. They lay in blissed out silence for a minute before Eames turns to look at Arthur again. He's beautiful, and Eames would like to say so but that would scare him off so he just keeps looking, running his eyes over the intricate fish and water that covers his arm, the memories of rebellion and loss on his chest, his bare abs flexing slightly as he breathes in and out. He doesn't seem to care about the come drying on his belly. Eames reaches for a corner of the sheet and wipes him clean. Arthur smiles at him again.

"Never thought you'd be one to care about cleaning up."

"Never thought you'd let me get you dirty."

"Oh, I was completely dirty long before you came along. But I like to keep business, business. Besides, the cleaner I look, the more everyone wants to muss me up. Tell me it didn't work on you."

"You do realize you're talking to a professional liar."

"You know I know, so what's the point of lying?"

There's nothing to be said to that, so Eames changes the subject.

"This one," he runs his hand down the muscle of Arthur's thigh, "I haven't heard about yet."

He can see now it's Spanish. Arthur translates.

"Life is not a dream. Look out! Look out! Look out!  
We fall down staircases to eat the damp earth  
or climb to the edge of the snow with a choir of dead dahlias.  
But there is no oblivion, nor sleep:  
raw flesh. Kisses bind our mouths  
in a tangle of fresh veins  
and who's pained by pain, will suffer without ease  
and who fears death will carry it on his shoulders."

**Author's Note:**

> The verse at the end is from "Ciudad sin sueño" by Federico García Lorca, published posthumously in his book Poeta en Nueva York. You can read the original here: http://spanishpoems.blogspot.com/2005/07/federico-garca-lorca-ciudad-sin-sueo.html
> 
> Arthur's back piece is based on Waterfall by M.C. Escher: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Escher_Waterfall.jpg
> 
> In my personal canon, Eames doesn't have any tattoos. I gave my in-world justification here, though it's also because I HATE Tom Hardy's tattoos and I'm sick of reading them on Eames.


End file.
